ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
The fabled French Quarter in the heart of town is known throughout this district for its cosmopolitan cafe scene and the narrow, windy roads that criss-cross the suburb.
This morning, the latter caught out Dylan Connor-Hunter as he found himself buzzing the windows of his late model Range Rover Sport up in disgust.
He was caught behind a garbage truck – the very same garbage truck that services his Art Deco apartment block on Rue De Putain.
“Fuck,” he said softly, just enough to be heard over the Justin Timberlake trickling out of the Bang & Olufsen speakers.
“This is just what I needed!”
So much was the inconvenience, the 38-year-old public relations executive slapped the calfskin wrapping the centre of the steering wheel, letting out a faint but audible beep.
Both of the hardworking garbologists swinging off the back of the garbage truck heard the rude toot and made their grievances known.
Mike Greenbow, a long time Shire Council garbage collector, reached into the back of the truck and retrieved an empty of Cobram extra-virgin olive oil to throw at Dylan’s sporty soft-roader.
And with a firm flick of the wrist, the $9 bottle flew through the air and into the centre of the Range Rover’s windscreen – cracking it.
Dylan immediately applied the brakes as the hot flush of fear and panic burst into his facial capillaries.
“Ah!” he squeaked.
He toyed with the idea of doing something about it – but ultimately decided to put his trilby in the glovebox and accept his new social pegging.
More to come.
